


Of Cobras and Stunned Mullets, or how the Irresistible Force Met the Unmovable Object

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Angst, First Time, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An intervention is needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Cobras and Stunned Mullets, or how the Irresistible Force Met the Unmovable Object

Life is a funny thing. There you are, minding your own business when, suddenly, this weird skinny kid waltzes right in and makes himself at home, and your life is no longer yours.

No, I didn't love him then, or at least not in the same way I love him now. At first he intrigued me. Smarter than the whole rest of the school put together, yet always in trouble because of his smartarse ways. Quiet, shy and more than a bit nerdy, but ballsy and mouthy when it counted.  
  
I am a bit of a collector, always have been—a collector of people—and he was compelling even then. He shone brightly; his fire, his charisma, his chutzpah, transcending his stick insect looks and geeky monologues.

Even when I had no earthly idea what he was prattling on about—and, let's face it, that was at least two thirds of the time—I couldn't help but pay attention to him, mesmerized by his eyes and his flying hands, like a bird ensnared by a swaying cobra.

We clashed. Of course we did. We still do. You couldn't find two more opinionated people if you tried. And then there is the small matter of me as the unmovable object—mulish, stubborn, uncompromising—and him as the irresistible force—dogged, relentless, inexorable.

And yet we each found in the other strengths to buttress our weaknesses, as though we'd been designed to exactly complement one another. In a strange attraction of opposites we became inseparable, and, to the collective despair of the adult population of the poky little hellhole we called home, we brought our respective talents to bear in the painstaking masterminding of chaos and mayhem... with a little help from our friends.

A pattern was set way back then that has carried on unchanged, and has served us well in our professional life. He as the sublime yet clueless visionary, and I as his enabler, interpreting his grandiose schemes into actionable plans that your average human can get his head around, and coming up with practical ways to execute them, from gloriously outrageous pranks to UFOs and aliens and full symphonies.

Best mates. Comrades in arms. Mischief making accomplices. Two sides of the same coin. Co-dependent. Complementary. Made for one another.

Take your pick. The fact is, our lives became entwined when we were barely into our teens, and this connection defines us, even now.

The more astute amongst you may have spotted what is glaringly missing from the litany above—Yes, Madam, well spotted. 'Lovers'. Here, have a signed copy of our latest CD.

That particular facet of our lives took its time to surface. Or, if we are being pedantic, which we do have a bit of tendency to be, we took our own sweet time coming to terms with it.

How the hell are you supposed to work out that you are attracted to your best mate or, even harder, that your best mate is attracted to you in return, when your friendship has deeper physical and emotional ties than most straight male-male relationships by a country mile or twenty?

Excuse me—yes, you with the gigglesnorting—it's not nice to make fun of other people's impairments. Yes, I do understand that, from the haughty seat of your slashy bastions, it was obvious as all fuck. But put yourself in our place. I mean, look at us. Seriously, the four of us used to huddle like puppies at the drop of a hat—actually, we still do, sometimes—which, let me tell you, raised more than an eyebrow in the blue rinse capital of the world.

Yeah, ok, there were times, in our crazy, debauched youth when, carried away by the feather boas and the masks and the toys and—let's call a spade a spade—the orgies, lines were crossed. But in the harsh, hungover reality of the morning after, plausible attribution was the order of the day.

It was, obviously, the shrooms' fault. We were, after all, virile, straight men in our prime—Oi!!! Yes, you, Sir. You with the suspiciously red spiky hair. Enough with the gigglesnorting already!!!! Leopard print does not the gay man make.

And really, you will just have to take my word for it but, in our defence, each of us is the only man the other has ever even looked at with anything resembling lust or, god help me, love.

So, yes, cue the girlfriends. Or, in my case, the endless parade of leggy brunettes. But regardless of domestic bliss or belt notches, there was always that feeling of rightness when we got together, the almost physical 'click' of puzzle pieces falling into place. And still...

Still, we carried on, oblivious in our deluded little world, long after everyone around us was laying bets on how long it would take for us to buy the clue.

He tried harder; much, much harder. You see, at the bottom of his blessed libertarian heart, all he's ever wanted is to be accepted. Unfortunately, women seem to look at him and see a project. A fixerupper, if you will.

And really, for all his vulnerabilities and surface fragility, I've never met anyone stronger, or in less need of fixing, or—present company excepted—more stubborn and set in his ways. A recipe for disaster, you say? Yes, eventually.

Like I said, he did try. But in the end, sooner or later, the whole thing imploded. And we were all faced with handling his emo kid on crack persona. No prizes for any guesses as to who was the one who bore the brunt of it. Yep. That would be yours truly.

I commiserated, listened to his endless ramblings, got him pissed as a newt, held him while he puked his guts out—sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively—and did my best to keep him out of harm's way; no mean feat, I'm sure you'll agree, if you know the man at all.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, I finally bought the clue—no, really, no need for applause, but thank you. It wasn't easy, though. For someone with off the scale smarts, he can be as thick as two planks, and needs things put to him in words of one syllable or less.

I tried subtle flirting—I know... I know!!!—I hinted, I flirted outrageously, I put myself out there, I tried all the tricks in my not inconsiderable arsenal... and nothing. It was painful, really, I was like a moonstruck calf, and the self-involved little sod was completely oblivious.

Don't get me wrong, he can flirt with the best, the runty evil tease, and he did play the game. Boy did he play the game—yes, you know what I'm talking about, you all saw it. But he behaved like it was just that, a game. An extension of our standard operating procedure.

In the end, the others mounted an intervention. Bless them, they couldn't take it any more. Now, consider the characters involved. Subtlety was definitely NOT the order of the day. Which, really, when you think about it, was just as well, but made for a very uncomfortable half hour or so.

Once they had said their piece, they upped and left, leaving us to ponder our shortcomings. We just sat there for a while, tongue tied like the teenagers that we are—emotionally, that is—throwing occasional sheepish glances at one another.

I'm sure it comes as no surprise to any of you that he was the one who made the first move. I did tell you, shy and quiet, but mouthy and ballsy when it counts. With a deep breath and a squaring of his bony shoulders, he stood up, walked around the coffee table that stood between us like a moat and, eyes sparkling with mischief, he straddled me as I sat on the couch, leant over, and kissed the everlasting living daylights out of me.

I'm afraid I made a stellar impression of a stunned mullet, looking up at him with my mouth gaping open as he let go of me and, cool as you please, sat back on my legs, smirked, and said, "What took you so long?"  



End file.
